


Reflection

by KayleeArafinwiel



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-23 10:51:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/925502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KayleeArafinwiel/pseuds/KayleeArafinwiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shortly after Aragorn has claimed his true name and set out on the quest to be proven worthy of his birthright, he leaves for Rohan, guarded by his foster brothers. En route, he pauses at the Gladden River to ponder his ancestor's fate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reflection

**Author's Note:**

> All Elvish words here are Sindarin, except one.
> 
> Loeg Ningloron - Gladden Fields.
> 
> Sîr Ninglor - Gladden River.
> 
> Anor - the Sun.
> 
> Hithaeglir - Misty Mountains, where the Gladden River has its source.
> 
> muindor dithen - Little brother.
> 
> Imladris - Rivendell.
> 
> Metta - Quenya for "The end". (Thanks to Fiondil for that one!)

He stood at the edge of the Loeg Ningloron, staring across the marshlands as he  
followed the river. The Man's long, dark hair was whipped by the wind; he could  
hear the moaning of those long dead echoing on this starless night, and he  
shivered.  
  
Wrapping his grey cloak more tightly around his shoulders, he turned to the  
waters of Sîr Ninglor, knelt, cupped his hands and dipped them. He drank deeply  
of the fresh water, and when the wind died down, he sought a place to lay his  
bedroll. It was not the most ideal area, perhaps; but he was exhausted and had  
no other choice.  
  
The next morning, the Man woke to the rays of Anor peeking over the Hithaeglir,  
which loomed in the distance. He rose and took some bread and cured meat from  
his pack, not bothering to make a fire. He ate quickly, then returned to the  
river to wash. Gazing into the still water, in the cool of the early morning, he  
saw his face, and that of his longfathers before him.  
  
"Shall I ever find the one who has It?" he wondered aloud, softly. "And if I do,  
shall I fall prey to It as did Isildur before me?" His brow creased in worry,  
and he let fear take him for a moment before he shook it off.  
  
"Nay, I shall not!" he cried, this time a challenge. "For am I not Aragorn son  
of Arathorn? Am I not Isildur's Heir, Chieftain of the Dunedain?" He was  
silenced by a hand on each shoulder and whirled around.  
  
"And you are loud, muindor dithen," said one of the two now facing him, dark  
grey eyes glinting with wry amusement. "I am certain Adar heard you all the way  
back in Imladris. Come, break your camp, mount your horse, and let us ride to  
meet your men," the other continued.  
  
"As you say, Elladan, Elrohir," Aragorn replied, looking abashed at the mild  
rebuke.  
  
*Metta*


End file.
